


Instincts

by BansheeLydia



Series: Instincts [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood and Gore, College, College Student Stiles, F/M, Ficlet, Mercenaries, Pre-Het, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 14:06:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6118732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BansheeLydia/pseuds/BansheeLydia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles’ gaze snapped to one of the circles of light in the distance and he squinted, trying to focus better. </p>
<p>One of the shadows peeled away from the rest.</p>
<p>And it was running.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Instincts

**Author's Note:**

> please skip to the end notes for a description of the violence and gore in this fic.

Stiles’ heart slammed against his ribs.

It was beating so hard he was sure he could almost hear it, pounding in his ears, over the harsh rasp of his own breath. 

He’d fucked up.

He should have listened to his dad instead of rolling his eyes every time the Sheriff lectured him about staying safe at college, but he’d lost track of time while trying to finish an overdue paper, and now it was 3am on a Sunday night, it was so dark and so cold and he was completely alone on the twenty minute walk from the library to his apartment.

He was the perfect target to be mugged; doing the very thing his dad had told him time and time again _not_ to do.

His breath misted white in front of him and Stiles gripped the straps of his backpack tighter, pausing in the harsh circle of yellow from a streetlight to cast a glance over his shoulder. He couldn’t see anyone and the brief whisper of footsteps he’d heard earlier were gone. Maybe it had just been someone else walking another way, but Stiles had always been taught to listen to his instincts and his instincts were screaming that he was being followed.

With numb fingers, he fumbled in his pocket for his phone, holding it like a lifeline as he started walking again. The soles of his shoes scraped roughly against the frosty sidewalk, too loud in the quiet stillness of the night, but if he focused, really listened – _there_.

The ghost of footsteps that echoed his rather than matching them; quiet, heaving, almost guttural breaths, so loud, so _close_ -

Stiles spun around, fear tearing through him – 

He was alone.

Stiles’ chest heaved as he stared at the empty road behind him. It was so dark, the streetlights lighting up a small patch of sidewalk periodically, stretching off into the distance, but apart from the slight listing off the trees around him in the cold breeze, the night was still. It should be comforting, he’d always found the quiet, still beauty of this place calming, except...

A chill swept down Stiles’ spine.

It was _too_ still. He couldn’t hear anything but his own breaths. No animals, no birds, not even the rustle of things in the forest. There was no gentle _swoosh_ of traffic in the distance. It was like all the animals had run off, the birds taking off into the sky, knowing – _sensing_ – something that Stiles couldn’t, and he was completely...utterly... _alone_.

_There_.

Stiles’ gaze snapped to one of the circles of light in the distance and he squinted, trying to focus better. 

One of the shadows peeled away from the rest.

And it was _running_.

A cry lurched into Stiles’ throat as he spun around, took off running, fear pulsing through him. He just had to get to the end of this stretch of road and turn right, and then he’d be on a residential road, he could be safe, he just had to _run_. 

He could hear it, close, closer, _too close_ -.

It was a patch of ice that saved him.

His foot caught it wrong and he skidded, body tipping sideways, shoulder slamming painfully into the fence that bordered the forest, and from the corner of his eye he saw the gleam of what looked like _claws_ , slicing down through the air where his body had been just half a second ago.

The sound split the air a second before Stiles hit the ground. He couldn’t place it; a crack of pressure cutting through the stillness of the night, too loud and too much for Stiles’ ears, and it took him a moment to realize he was on the ground, the frost seeping through his clothes, the cold so sharp it felt like it was embedded in his bones. His ears rang and suddenly his mind supplied, almost calmly, _gunshot_. 

Shaking hands flew to his torso a second later, seeking the wound, wondering, vaguely, why it didn’t hurt as he waited to the feel the hot slickness of blood. A sound, almost like the noise a wild animal would make but pitched low and harsher, louder, rippled around him and it was then that Stiles noticed the body a few feet away from him and the woman stood on the other side of the road.

She was still holding a shotgun, expression blank and gaze fixed on the man she’d just shot. Her boots crunched in the frost as she crossed the road and Stiles shifted up to his knees. 

“You – you shot him.”

“I saved your life,” she returned evenly. “He was about to kill you.”

The man still hadn’t moved, but he kept making these _sounds_ , rough, guttural noises, and Stiles knew she was right; he’d seen the weapon – whatever those claw like things were – for himself as he’d narrowly avoided being cut up into dog chow. But she’d _shot_ him. Stiles reached out, hands suddenly very still as reality blurred slightly around the edges, just enough for him to let instinct take over as he put pressure on the wound on the man’s chest, trying to stop the bleeding, to save him from dying right there in front of him.

“You have to run away,” he heard himself saying, gaze flicking, briefly, to the woman. “Someone might have heard the gunshot, the police could be on their way; you need to get out of here.”

She didn’t move. Instead, she just tilted her head slightly with something like curiosity on her face. When the man shifted beneath Stiles’ hands, however, alarm crossed her features and she reached out, dragging Stiles back by the hood of his jacket.

“Get behind me,” she snapped.

“Are you crazy? You _shot_ him, he’s gonna _die_ , we...” Stiles’ voice cracked and faded away when he saw the man getting to his feet, face twisted into something – something not _right_ , all sharp teeth and too much hair and bright, glowing blue eyes. 

His hands were curled at his sides, claws extended where nails should have been, and a shadow of dull terror crept through Stiles, that kind of slow, pervasive feeling one gets when faced with something _not right_.

“Trust me,” the woman said. “He’s fine.” She pumped her gun and aimed it squarely at the man’s chest while taking a strong step back, forcing Stiles to skid back a few steps with her.

He made that sound again – that _snarl_ – and spit out, “This is none of your business, merc.”

The woman smiled coldly. “It is when I’m getting paid quarter of a million for it.”

She stepped back again and Stiles scrambled to stay balanced, hand gripping the back of her leather jacket, because he didn’t know who she was or what the hell was going on, but right now, she and her gun were the only thing standing between him and the... _thing_ that looked all too eager to find out what his intestines looked like.

The guy snarled again, neck twisting slightly, and Stiles caught the flash of a tattoo that stood out starkly on his throat. 

The woman turned her head just enough to look at Stiles. “ _Run_.”

Stiles started to obey, skittering back, but then hesitated. He couldn’t just leave her here to fight this guy alone. When he didn’t go any further, her body snapped around so she could yell, and in that second, the guy lunged.

“Look out!” Stiles yelled.

She swung her gun towards Mr Pointy Teeth, but he was faster, _inhumanly_ fast, blocking the end of the gun. A shot went off and the guy’s hand fucking _exploded_ , bits of blood and meat and bone spraying, and Stiles was pretty sure if he survived this, he was never gonna eat pork again. But Mr Pointy Teeth didn’t seem to even care, other hand arcing through the air; she twisted her body and claws glanced across her jacket, shredding the thick leather like a knife through butter. She brought her leg up at the same time, slamming her knee into his groin, then up again when he doubled over with a grunt to get him in the solar plexus. In a quick, almost fluid movement, she twisted the gun from his grip and cracked it against his skull.

Mr Pointy Teeth went down like a sack of potatoes and Stiles started to wheeze out a breathless “holy _shit_ ”, but he was getting up again a second later, and the woman turned, fingers locking around Stiles’ wrist.

“ _Run_!” she shouted and this time he listened.

All Stiles could hear was the thud of their shoes against the road and his heavy, wheezing breaths – and oh _god_ , now was the worst possible time for a panic attack – and he was hyper aware of the woman’s hand around his wrist, how she held back to make sure he stayed with her. 

As they reached the corner, he risked a glance over his shoulder, heart lurching when he saw the guy _right behind them_ , keeping up effortlessly despite the whole disadvantage of a freaking _bullet in his chest_. 

They turned and hit a big patch of ice; the woman’s foot skidded from beneath her and Stiles caught her, dragged her back up, and now _he_ was the one pulling _her_ along, gaze fixed on the lights ahead; they were getting close to town where, even at this time, there’d be some people about, and more importantly, where the police station was. He didn’t let himself look back again, even as the hairs rose on the back of his neck and goosebumps rippled over his skin, like he could sense that clawed fingers were seconds away from touching his neck.

The woman jerked to a stop and Stiles stumbled, legs feeling shaky. 

“It’s okay,” she said, only slightly winded. “He’s gone.”

Stiles almost crumpled with relief. He bent forward, bracing his hands on his knees as he alternated between hacking up a lung and trying to drag in desperate breaths that scraped the inside of his chest, made his throat feel raw and bloody. He could taste metal in his mouth, body waking back up to the cold, and he realized he was shaking.

“Hey.”

A hand settled on the back of his neck and Stiles flinched, until she gently tipped his head up so he could meet her dark eyes. She gave his neck just a gentle squeeze, getting him to focus on her.

“Hey,” she repeated, almost gentle. “It’s okay. He’s gone. Just breathe with me, okay?”

Stiles kept his gaze on hers, syncing the rise and falls of their chests until they were both breathing in a slow, steady rhythm. He felt exhausted, limbs like jelly, as the adrenaline crashed out of him in one big wave. His heart still pounded in his chest, but the panic that had been blurring the edges of his vision slowly receded. He dragged in a lungful of cold air and breathed it out through his nose, straightening.

“What the...” he windmilled his arms slightly, trying to find the right words to even ask the question, and finally settled on, “What the _fuck_?!”

She gazed at him for a long moment, searching his eyes for something, before turning away. “I’ll explain everything. Let’s just get inside, okay?”

Stiles pushed a hand through his hair, feeling, weirdly, like he could just collapse in bed and sleep for a day. When he didn’t say anything, she turned back to him, raising an eyebrow.

“Seriously, do you want to stand out here in the cold all night, or go inside where it’s warm? And _safe_?”

It was the latter that finally had Stiles jerking his thumb in the vague direction of his building. She started walking and Stiles fell into step beside her, shoving his hands deep into his pockets to try and warm them up.

“Who are you?” he asked after a moment.

“My name’s Braeden.”

When she didn’t offer anything more, Stiles said, “I’m Stiles,” and her mouth tipped into a small smile.

“I know.”

*

Once they were inside his apartment, Stiles spent ten minutes walking around the small space, flicking on lights and checking all the windows were locked.

Scott was back in Beacon Hills for the weekend visiting his mom and there was a note on the fridge for Stiles from his other roommate Erica, telling him she was spending the night at her boyfriend’s and that she’d left casserole for him to heat up, which meant that he and Braeden were alone.

She didn’t waste time in making herself at home. She set her shotgun on the counter – there was a _gun_ on his kitchen counter, fucking _Christ_ – and shucked off her ruined jacket. Stiles watched her for a moment. In the light – and away from piss-his-pants-terrifying danger – he could see she was probably only a few years older than him, and that there were pale, long scars extending down her throat and chest. His mind flashed to the man’s claws and he shivered.

While Braeden tied her dark curls up out of her face, Stiles grabbed the leftover bean casserole from the fridge and placed it in the microwave. He watched it while the machine hummed, leaning against the counter, trying to ignore the weapon that looked so bizarre on the cracked formica, nestled between the toaster and a jar of coffee.

A thought suddenly struck him. “Could he have followed us?” he glanced around the apartment, itching to look under the beds and in closets like he’d find some kind of animal-man lurking. 

Braeden had lifted her bloody top up enough to look at the scratches on her side and she didn’t look up as she replied, calmly, “He didn’t.”

Stiles glanced at the scratches, concerned, but they didn’t look too bad; her jacket had taken the brunt of the damage. They raked across her hip but weren’t deep and had only bled a little bit; they kind of looked, weirdly, like cat scratches.

“How can you be sure?”

“I pumped him full of wolfsbane. He was stubborn, sure; not many betas could get back up after a shot that close to their heart. But he wouldn’t be stupid enough to follow us. He’ll either have crawled off to die or gone to get help. You’re safe for now.”

A _ping_ broke the silence after her words and Stiles turned, busied himself with dividing the casserole between two plates and grabbing cutlery. He grabbed two bottles of water from the fridge and sat down, nudging a plate towards Braeden with one of the bottles. She dropped her shirt and looked at him with a touch of surprise on her features.

“Thanks,” she said.

Stiles shrugged, poking at his own casserole with his fork. Braeden sat down and tossed her legs up onto the table. If Erica were here, she’d probably make a comment about boots on her coffee table, but Stiles let it go, just eating quietly for a few minutes.

“Back there,” Braeden said after a moment, “You helped me when I fell behind. You didn’t have to do that.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Oh, yeah, because I’d just leave you behind to die.”

She stared at him for a long moment, long enough for him to wonder if he’d said something wrong, before she shook her head slightly and took a long pull from her bottle of water.

“I told you to run and you didn’t,” she said. “You’re gonna need to get used to doing as I say.”

There were so many things Stiles could say to that, like ‘ _are we going to be spending a lot of time together?_ ’ or ‘ _I don’t really do as I’m told very well_ ’ or even a more succinct ‘ _screw you_ ’. Instead, he settled on:

“Why should I trust you?”

“I did just save your life.”

Stiles wasn’t swayed. “The way I see it, I just got attacked by – by some kind of mutant, and you come along. Yeah, you saved my life, but I don’t know you, though you apparently know who I am, and this is all super suspicious, you realize that, right? How’d I know you’re not planning to gut me like a fish later?”

Braeden just smiled slightly, this cool, enigmatic smile that was both unfairly attractive and increasingly frustrating. The woman was like the embodiment of a question mark and Stiles _hated_ mysteries, always had to figure out the puzzle and could never rest until he did. 

“I’m getting paid a pretty impressive amount to protect you,” she said. “So, you don’t have to trust me. Just trust that until that money reaches my account, keeping your ass safe is in my best interests.”

The _until_ said it all. Once she was paid for the job, Stiles had no guarantee of his safety around her, that much was obvious. She was telling him bluntly not to trust him, but Stiles also always hated being told what to do. He tended to do the complete opposite, just because he could.

“Why?” he asked. “Why would someone pay you to...protect _me_?”

“For a cop’s kid,” Braeden started, smirking when Stiles frowned slightly at just how much she knew about him, “You’re not good at asking the right questions.”

Stiles considered, then asked, “Why do I need protecting?”

The smile dropped and she leaned forward, gaze searching his. “You tell me.”

“I don’t _know_.”

For a few quiet moments, she just watched him, like she was trying to detect a lie. When she found none, she relaxed, taking a bite of casserole. 

“Do you know Peter Hale?”

Stiles shook his head. “No.”

“You’re lucky,” she said. “Guy’s a jackass. But he approached me and gave me the job.”

“He’s the one paying you to protect me?” Stiles frowned. “I don’t even know who this person is.”

Braeden shrugged. “He said you wouldn’t. I figured I’d check.” She finished her water. “That man tonight, he wasn’t a mutant. He was a werewolf.”

“Right, because werewolves are a thing.”

Her mouth curved into that infuriating smile. “Among other things.”

Stiles pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, resisting the urge to laugh. _Werewolves_. Right, of course. He took a deep breath. He’d process that later, because if he let himself think too much about it right now, he’d probably lose it completely.

“I recognized the tattoo on his neck,” Braeden continued. “He’s part of a whole pack of them, a bunch of supernatural killers for hire. Tonight wasn’t personal; someone hired him to kill you.”

Stiles stared at her. “Someone hired a werewolf to kill me and someone else hired you to protect me.” She nodded. “But... _why_?”

“I don’t know. I don’t generally ask questions. I get a job, I do it, I get paid. But there’s something about this...it’s a puzzle. I hate puzzles.”

He was quiet for a while as they finished their food. “So...you’re like him? The werewolf?”

Braeden didn’t look angry at the question. She just gave him a steady look. “I don’t make a habit of defending who I am or what I do. I’m a merc, I do what I need to survive.” She stood, dumping their dishes in the sink. “But think about this: tonight, I was the one who stood between you and getting your throat ripped out.”

Stiles could see her point. Whoever she was and whatever she did on other jobs and to other people, her job this time was to protect him, and she had. She’d saved his life. 

He looked at the gun on the counter, releasing a slow breath. He felt bone tired, but his head was still full of so many questions. 

“How long?” he asked. “Have you been watching me?”

“About a week.”

Stiles frowned, a chill going through him. Even if she was, for the moment, on his side, it was a disturbing thought to know he’d had someone watching him, following him, for a whole week without him even noticing it. 

“That guy’s been following you for the last three days. I stopped him before he could get close to you yesterday, but I wasn’t quite fast enough tonight.” 

Stiles’ mouth felt dry. He swallowed a couple of times, throat clicking. “I’m just a college student. Why would anyone pay to kill me?” Or protect him, for that matter. 

“I don’t know,” Braeden replied. “But we’ll find out.”

**Author's Note:**

> violence, including: guns, gunshot wound, blood and description of blood, a pretty graphic description of a hand getting blown off, mention of gutting and intestines. 
> 
> allirica.tumblr.com - come say hi? :)


End file.
